


Fourth and Long

by akamarykate



Category: Early Edition
Genre: F/M, Football is life the rest is just details, WOULD YOU TWO JUST KISS ALREADY
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-16
Updated: 2006-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-25 08:34:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1641740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akamarykate/pseuds/akamarykate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Football is life; the rest is just details.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fourth and Long

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Clannadlvr

 

 

Line of Scrimmage

Gary parked and locked his jeep, jogged down the block and around the corner, and stopped at a lamp post, just shy of its dim pool of light. He scanned the street ahead until he made out the Taurus parked at the end of the block. Its color was lost in the dark, so perfectly nondescript that it couldn't be anything but an unmarked cop car. Rain trickled down his neck as he stood there trying to figure out what to say.

How was he supposed to do this without ruining everything?

He had to tell her, no matter what she thought of him. Even if she didn't believe him; even if it meant her suspects got away; even though she'd blame him if her case fell apart. He couldn't let her be ambushed or blown up.

He had to tell her.

Even if she never spoke to him again.

Kickoff

He'd seen thousands of sunrises from hundreds of perches, but this bridge was his favorite. At a certain point the whole of Chicago turned toward the lake to watch light and color spread from the shore to the suburbs.

The best time was when it was still grey. Most humans weren't stirring yet; the receding dark muffled the noises of those who were. The city belonged to those few who stopped to see it for what it was: towering, solid, geometric.

Any minute now, it would change. The humans would move and flow through it, and the city they saw would be different than his. It would be full of opportunities and possibilities, good and bad, but they wouldn't see the whole of it, just the bits that happened to cross their own concrete paths. Most wouldn't think about the way those paths gridded outward, connecting every corner of the city and everyone who lived in it. They certainly wouldn't consider the possibility that time did the same thing.

Humans were stubborn, and some needed occasional nudges to get them to look up and see more than just the day-to-day. Or, in the case of his human, next-day-to-next-day. His human liked to blame the newspaper for his tunnel vision, but there were more choices available to Gary Hobson than most humans had in a lifetime.

He was stubborn about seeing them, but he would. It was Cat's job to make sure he did.

In the Huddle

She was talking, but he wasn't listening.

As usual.

"So I thought we could hire another bartender, someone to cover part-time and on the weekends." Like tonight. Even though they were at the far end of the bar, she was getting the occasional elbow in the back. She wasn't sure if Gary was distracted by the crowd or by something else. "Now that the Bears are doing so well, we could really use more help on Sundays. We need to coordinate the kitchen schedule with the times of the games, maybe try some new appetizers--tailgating-type food. Are you getting any of this?"

"Uh-huh." He turned a page. "Bears are going all the way. Defense wins championships."

"And next spring, when I play third base, the Cubs are bound to break the curse, in which case we'll need to hire four new cooks and a juggler."

"Never happen. Cubs suck."

"Gary--"

"I don't believe this." His voice tightened. "I'm going to have to go over there."

"Where?"

"Brigatti's on a stake out, and it's going to go bad." Something--cordless phone, Marissa guessed--landed on the bar with a clunk. "She's going to see right through me and she'll have a million questions that I can't answer and then she'll yell at me again and we'll be right back at square one."

"Again?"

His answer was muffled; the only words she could make out were "she said" and "yesterday". Then he fell silent.

She wasn't sure how far to push him. "If you have a problem talking to her," she finally asked, "why don't you just call in an anonymous tip?"

"Because every dispatcher in the tri-state area has this number red-flagged."

"As well they should. They ought to know by now that you--"

"No, not because I help them. Because they think I'm a nutcase--Brigatti especially. I practically solved her case, but does she say thank you?"

"Do I get three guesses?"

"Sure, if they're all 'no'."

That bitter tone usually meant he was feeling too sorry for himself to think--or act--rationally. Twirling her straw in her drink, trying hard to sound casual and not like a nag, she asked, "Did you stick around to be thanked?"

"As a matter of fact, I did. You know, I went out of my way to keep the paper out of it. I got there before she did--I really did see the guy running out the door. It was even my bank, so it made sense for me to be there. All she had to do was take my word for it that I knew the guy's name, and that he lived up the street, because he'd filled out a job application earlier in the week. You turned him down, by the way, and if anyone asks, we shred the applications we reject."

"I wish he really had applied," she said. "We could use the help."

"What?"

She waved her hand. "Never mind, go on."

"But instead of heading out after him, she gets in my face. How do I know where he's going and what he's going to do next? He was going to take hostages," he said, his voice rising. "I didn't have time to explain how I knew. Not like she'd believe me."

Marissa bit back her first instinct, which was to tell him that Brigatti might surprise him. "But you convinced her, right? She caught him?"

"Yeah, she stopped him a couple blocks over--I even waited around for her to come back. I thought maybe..." His voice trailed off; there was something more there. "But once she had everything taken care of, she just stood there looking at me. I tried to explain--"

"About the paper?"

"Well, no, Marissa, it wasn't exactly a good time for that. She just cut me off anyway, said she didn't want any more excuses so I might as well leave. Would it have killed her to say, 'Thanks, Gary'? Oh, well, of course she couldn't say _that_. It's Hobson, but still."

And she was Brigatti, not Toni. "How exactly was she looking at you?"

"The same way she did the last time we were supposed to have a date and this thing--" He slammed a hand on the paper, and the whole bar rattled. Drops of club soda sprinkled her hand. "--screwed it all up."

"You cancelled another date? Oh, Gary."

"Don't 'Oh, Gary' me. I had a perfectly good reason. I just couldn't tell her what it was. She saw right through my story. I believe her exact words were, 'Don't call me until you're done playing games.' And I'm not going to be done with the paper anytime soon, am I?" There was a softer thump on the newspaper, and he let out a huff of frustration. "Anyway, that was three weeks ago. I'm talking about yesterday. She just _looked_ at me."

"Maybe she was waiting for you to apologize."

"For what? Ancient history?"

"Or for not being completely honest with her."

"Since when are you on her side?"

"I'm on yours." She held out her hand, palm down, as if that could placate him. "She's good for you, and she likes you."

He snorted.

"Look, Gary, I've been around the two of you for a grand total of, what? A few minutes. And even I can tell there's chemistry."

"Chemistry?"

"You know. Sexual attract--"

"I know what chemistry is, Marissa. It's what makes things blow up."

"So you're saying you're afraid of her?" She hid a grin in a sip of club and lime.

"Would you quit psychoanalyzing me? Look, no matter what's happened between us, she's in trouble tonight, and she's not going to listen to the only person who can tell her that, because that person is me."

"You have to make her listen."

"How? I can't apologize, because then I'll have to explain about the paper."

Which was what it always came back to. She took a deep breath, then asked the sixty-four thousand dollar question. "And you can't do that because...?"

"Because it'll ruin any chance I have with her."

She nodded. "Because she matters, more than you want to admit. Maybe you just need to show her how much."

"How the hell am I supposed to do that when she won't even listen to me?"

That was it. She pulled the newspaper out from under his hand and bundled it into a roll.

"What're you doing?"

His voice helped her aim, and she smacked what she hoped was the back of his head with the paper.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"If you don't--" He was a guy, she reminded herself, and started over. "Let me put this in terms you'll understand. It's fourth and long, you're down by four, thirty yards from the end zone. What do you do?"

"How much time?"

"Less than a minute."

"How's their secondary?" he asked, as if it were a hypothetical situation and not the same tale of high school glory he trotted out every fall. "Should I be thinking screen pass or a deep drop to the corner? Am I looking at a blitz or a three man rush? We could fake a quarterback sneak if I had a couple of blockers ready to go, or--"

"The point is," she said before he shattered her façade of football knowledge, "you have a split second to decide. Do you try a short run to get the first down, or do you go for the receiver who's fighting his way toward the corner of the end zone?"

"Depends on the guy. Are we talking a Marvin Harrison here, or--"

"What," she said, biting off the word like a carrot, "do you _do_?"

"Go long," he said, as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

"Exactly."

He was silent for a second; she imagined the wheels in his head squeaking. "Meaning what?"

"Maybe she wanted more than an explanation. Maybe," Marissa said as she dropped the worse-for-the-wear _Sun-Times_ in front of him, "she didn't want you to say anything at all."

The Prevent Defense

"Tell me again how you caught the suspect in the North Bank robbery."

"I threatened to shoot him, and he surrendered. The end." When Winslow waggled his eyebrows at her, she gritted her teeth. "You know how."

"And yet, I never get tired of hearing it."

"Winslow, I swear, if you don't shut up, this coffee's going in your lap." Better there than in her stomach, she thought as she sipped it. Just as horrible as it had been an hour ago. Grimacing, she checked to make sure the light was still on in the upstairs bedroom across the street. The siding drooped off the foundation of the run-down house; the roof would cave in if a squirrel landed on it. Perfect headquarters for a drug operation.

"C'mon, Brigatti, just one more time. I promise I won't ask again."

"No." How could she tell him when she didn't know anything? It wasn't as if she hadn't tried to find out--and probably messed up any chance she might have had with Hobson in the process.

But what else was she supposed to do? Not a word from the guy in three weeks and then there he was in the bank, acting as if he expected a parade just because he'd been in the right place at the right time. If only he could manage that when it wasn't about police business--if he'd only just be himself around her for more than a minute or two at a time.

He never would--that was the point. She'd had every reason to explode at him when she first found him there, and to give him the silent treatment later. It wasn't her fault Hobson was a flake, or that he didn't trust her with the truth, whatever the hell it was. She was better off without him.

She'd stop thinking about him eventually.

Her overcaffeinated partner wasn't much help. "I'll turn the radio on. All country, all the time." He reached for the power button. "I hear they're doing a tribute to Conway Twitty."

"Radio Disney would be more your speed." First he put almond flavoring in her coffee, now this. Winslow was a decent partner, as long as she didn't have to spend hours rubbing shoulders with him. But they were both going nuts waiting for something to happen; no wonder she couldn't get Hobson off her mind. "You're just bored enough to do it, aren't you?" she asked, and wedged her styrofoam cup into the holder.

"Never underestimate the lengths I'll go to, to survive a stakeout with you." He hummed something with a twang.

"Fine." She crossed her arms and stared out at the house. There was movement at the side fence. Too small to be human; probably a raccoon. Or a cat.

Winslow waved his hand in an expansive gesture. "So you get a phone call from your boyfriend..."

"What are you, twelve?"

He grinned. "Most women can't resist my boyish charm."

"Funny; right now I'm finding you one hundred percent resistible." She opened her door and got one foot out. "I'm going for a walk."

"That's not a good idea."

Winslow snorted out a laugh before she'd fully taken in to whom the voice--and the denim-clad legs in her direct line of sight--belonged. "Hobson, what the hell--"

When he stooped down, his face was inches from hers. "Don't go in there, Brigatti. Those guys are drug dealers."

She tried to freeze him out with a look, but couldn't quite meet his eyes. "We weren't waiting around to nab the pizza delivery boy."

Clearing his throat, Winslow nodded in the general direction of the house. "If we were, he'd hardly show up now."

A shadow at the window. "Get in the back."

"But--"

"Now!"

She slammed her door shut, and he dove into the back seat as if there were snipers taking shots at him. Winslow gave up all pretense of disinterested professionalism and put his head down on the steering wheel, shoulders shaking.

Hobson didn't miss a beat. "Look, Brigatti, there're more people in there than you think."

"More than ten?" she snapped, picking a number out of thin air. Winslow opened his mouth, but she smacked his arm.

"Well, no, but the thing is, they've also got a meth lab in the basement."

Winslow shook his head. Their informant hadn't said anything about a lab.

"They're not very smart and if you go in there's going to be--I mean, there _might_ be some kind of ambush, and if that happens there'll be--there _could_ be--an explosion and then you could get hurt and the bad guys could get away."

"Gosh, Andy, not the bad guys," Winslow drawled.

"And you know this how?" she asked, wishing she could muzzle her partner. "This isn't exactly your neighborhood."

"Maybe they're friends of his," Winslow said with a smirk. "Like the bank robber."

"No, they're not my friends." Hobson looked like he'd rather be anywhere else--which is how he usually looked around her anymore.

She knew she wouldn't get a straight answer out of him, and though part of her knew he was probably right, it was a small part. The rest of her was so ticked off, and so tired of his obfuscating, that she just didn't care. She drew her gun. "Call it in," she told Winslow.

He frowned and shifted his eyes toward Hobson. "If he's right--"

"They've already seen us. If we don't go in now, we'll lose them."

"Brigatti, no." Hobson put a hand on her shoulder. "You have to trust me."

As if touching her was natural; as if he had a right to tell her what to do; as if he hadn't bugged out of three dates in as many months.

As if he actually cared about her.

Long Bomb

The explosion shattered every window in the house.

By then, the block was crawling with cops and gawkers. Brigatti and Winslow had made plenty of noise imitating rookies trying to sneak into the back door; they'd drawn most of the suspects out of the house and into the hands of the uniformed back-ups. An ambulance came for the other two dealers--burns and a broken arm, Gary found out when he snuck a look at the paper--and neighbors came stumbling out of their houses to shake their heads and wonder why it had taken so long for the police to do something about the goings-on across the street.

In the confusion of lights and sirens, Gary lost track of Brigatti, and everyone lost track of him. Everyone except for Cat, who made a path through the tangle of humanity and headed toward the street where Gary'd parked the jeep. Despite everything, he thought about sticking around--but then he remembered the way the look on her face had changed from startled to defensive and then, when she'd ordered him to stay in the car, to dangerous. It would turn out worse than yesterday, and he had no convenient explanations for how he'd known about this one.

"I get the message. I'm going," he muttered when Cat meowed from the corner.

Winslow didn't even notice him slip past; he was too busy cuffing one of the drug dealers. "You have the right to remain silent," he said as Gary broke free of the crowd.

"But you don't." Brigatti stepped in front of him, seemingly out of nowhere.

"You're arresting me?"

"Fat chance." She blew a strand of wet hair off her face, but it flopped right back. "If I did that, you'd have rights. I want you to talk." She hooked the offending hair over her ear with one gloved finger, and Gary gulped. How was he supposed to walk away when a tiny thing like that could stop his breath?

"Focus." She clapped once, right in his face. "I need to know how you knew."

He had to get out of there before it all fell apart. "I didn't know anything." He stepped around her, but she was right on his heels.

"Don't mess with me, Hobson," she said as they rounded the corner, anger coiled tight in her voice. "We've got two injured suspects and half a dozen others in custody, and--"

"And you're welcome."

"What?"

He sighed and stopped, turning to face her. "I assume there was a thank you in there somewhere. I saved your life--" A bit of an exaggeration, but close enough. "--you got the bad guys, and you are very welcome. I also seem to remember you not wanting to play any more games."

She flinched at that, but didn't soften.

"Now if you'll excuse me, I'm wet and I'm tired, and I'd like to go home."

"No." She grabbed his arm.

"No?"

"Just tell me, Hobson."

It was only post-arrest adrenaline, he told himself, that quickened her breathing and widened her eyes. It was only Marissa's pointless pep talk that made him think there was anything more to this than the usual interrogation. Still, he had to open and close his mouth twice before he could get any words out, and when he did, they weren't what he'd planned to say.

"I want to tell you. You're the first person I've wanted to tell in a very long time. But even if you believed me--and you wouldn't, not at first--everything would change."

As he said it, he realized he was ready for that change, ready for Brigatti to say she wanted it, too. But she just stared at him, her expression unreadable, until one of the marked cars went wailing past.

"Fine," she said when the noise faded.

"Fine?"

Lips pressed tight, she released his arm and waved down the empty street. "Go."

He'd gotten as close to the truth as he dared, and she was sending him home. No argument, no wrangling. Just--"Go?"

"What are you, a parrot? I have work to do."

"Maybe we could--I mean, if you want to get coffee or something when you're done--"

"Maybe." But she shook her head.

That was it, then. She hadn't been bluffing three weeks ago. Chemistry or not, there was no way to make this work. She didn't want to try, and he didn't know how to. He turned and stalked off.

Four steps and his foot landed in a deep puddle. Water sloshed over his shoe top and he stopped, looking down at the rippling reflection of light.

"So much for going long," he muttered.

"What was that?"

She was still there.

The pocket collapsed around him; there was no room to scramble. But there was one receiver, a step ahead of the safety and a yard from the goal line. All he needed was a perfect, spiraling pass.

Gary spun around, took the four steps back, grabbed her by the arms, and kissed her.

After a startled split-second, she kissed him back. He closed his eyes and sank, and it was better than the jewelry store, better than what might have been at the Hilton, better than--

"Damn, Hobson," she whispered when they finally broke apart.

"Better than a fingertip catch in the end zone," he whispered back.

She blinked. "Don't you know this is a baseball town?"

"Can't help it. I'm a football kinda guy."

"I can live with that," she said with a tiny, lopsided grin, and he had to kiss her again. Her hand slipped to the back of his neck, warm right through her leather glove.

A blatant wolf whistle from a few yards away cut her off.

"Winslow," Brigatti cursed, and pulled away. "I have to go."

"Yeah," was about all Gary could manage.

"Coffee later?"

"Oh, yeah. Coffee."

"Parrot." She quirked that grin again and walked off to join her partner.

"That's quite the interrogation technique you have there," Winslow said.

"Shut up, Conway Twitty."

Gary watched them go, then started back to his jeep. And even though Cat wasn't about to join him for an end zone celebration, he spiked the paper into the puddle and raised his arms in the air.

It was good.

 

 

 


End file.
